


Telltale

by rohanrider3



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Parent Martin Whitly, Gen, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, I cannot stress this enough AWFUL PARENT MARTIN WHITLY, Language, Like for real though be careful if you have triggers regarding awful parenting, Malcolm Bright Whump, Manipulative Martin Whitly, Martin Whitly is a manipulative bastard, Martin Whitly's very against any medicine or contrary opinions, Now they do, Parental Abuse content warning, Whump, You've been warned, he's literally a manipulative serial killer who abused his family and particularly his son, here there be manipulative emotional physical and mental abuse, like seriously, like why are we surprised but still, no he was not a good father, none of these tags existed before this, oh well, that's the point of the fic, untrustworthy doctor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:34:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27692848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rohanrider3/pseuds/rohanrider3
Summary: TelltaleNoun:1) A person, especially a child, who reports others’ wrongdoings or reveals their secrets2) An outward sign; indicationMalcolm gets trapped with Martin in isolation. With Malcolm sleep-deprived and cut off from his medications, Martin finally realizes his son actively refuses to become like him or acknowledge him.This is what happens afterwards.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Ainsley Whitly, Malcolm Bright & JT Tarmel, Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Sunshine the Bird
Comments: 12
Kudos: 90





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IceQueen1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceQueen1/gifts).



> WARNING: This fic contains graphic depictions of abuse of a parent towards their child and children, past and present. This includes mental, emotional, psychological, and physical abuse. POVs also bounce around multiple times, too many to divide easily without spoilers. But I can tell you right now, the moments in Martin Whitly's head are intense. Please proceed at your own judgement.
> 
> Stab the body and it heals, but injure the heart and the wound lasts a lifetime.   
> Mineko Iwasaki

Malcolm Bright was ready to kill something.

Okay, not literally kill something. Maybe punch a wall. Or just throw back his head and scream hoarsely into the sky until either his voice gave out or the blue expanse cracked and fell on him.

Or until he got arrested. Which would be awkward, given that he was already late for his meeting with Ainsley this morning. But if he had to hear one more saccharine Christmas carol winsomely emanating from the speakers in this coffeeshop before the first frost had even hit, he was going to scream. “Merry Merry Merry Merry Christmas!!!” Yeah, right.

He’d scream all right. At least internally.

The lady ahead of him paused, sucked in another breath, and began to shriek even louder at the poor lone barista behind the register. With the part of his mind that wasn’t dulled into throbbing agony due to three days (and counting) of sleep deprivation, Malcolm briefly wondered if the glass case currently housing assorted pastries would shatter.

Then something more important worked its way to the front of his mind. Oh, right. The barista. The tired, sunken-eyed, worn looking barista going red with embarrassment and humiliation about her ears. The barista currently getting screamed at.

“—THIS IS ABSOLUTELY UNACCEPTABLE—DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHO I—”

Malcolm sighed, bringing himself back into the present by massaging the bridge of his nose with one hand. “O-kay.” He muttered to himself. Then leaned out of the line and to the side, smiling brightly as he addressed the shrieking woman in front of him.

“Hi.”

The woman spared him a brief backwards glare, then turned back to her victim. Before she could launch into another tirade, he continued.

“You do know she’s a person, right? You do know how to treat people, right?”

The look she turned on him could have curdled milk. Bright grinned wider. He’d seen worse.

“YOU STAY OUT OF THIS!” The woman roared, spittle flicking out the corner of her mouth. Malcolm briefly flicked his gaze behind her, taking one look at the now sniffling barista, who was trying to dab her tears away with a pumpkin-spice covered apron. When he looked back at the other woman, his smile was still friendly. But it did not quite reach his eyes.

“No. No, I don’t think I will.”

Her jaw dropped another two inches. Malcolm cocked his head and gave her his most amiable smile.

“YOU—WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?!”

“Oh!” Malcolm said cheerily, extending a hand out. “I’m Malcolm. Malcolm Bright.”

She stared at him, then down at his hand, then back up at him.

“I DON’T—YOU—“

Malcolm waited patiently for a moment. Then, as politely as he could manage, “Yes?”

The woman swelled like a scraggly bird who refused to see anything wrong with its previous (aggressive) eighteen attempts and was still desperately trying to find a mate at the tail end of an unproductive mating season. “YOU—“

Her voice grated on his already sore ears, and Malcolm decided to skip the song and dance of trying to talk sense into her. “Look,” he said, as patiently as he could, “just because something isn’t going your way doesn’t mean you get to scream and throw a temper tantrum.”

“H—how dare you speak to me like that?!” She gasped. She seemed genuinely surprised. Malcolm shrugged one shoulder, never letting his voice rise higher than his typical polite conversational level.

“Honestly? It’s not hard. I’d like to have a friendly conversation with you. But that seems to be a study in futility. It’s just—it’s really hard to understand how you can go around treating people like they’re robots, and obviously believe the availability of raspberry scones is more important than common decency to another literal human being.”

The woman opened her mouth. Shut it again. Then found her second wind and swelled again like an ominous pufferfish.

“I’VE NEVER—YOU—YOU POMPOUS—“

Malcolm shook his head. He was tired. And done dealing with her. “God Almighty, lady. Just leave. They don’t have any of the scones you wanted and insisted on having or nothing else. She already told you they’re out, like, three times. Better luck next time.”

She seemed about to speak again, then noticed the line of deeply irritated customers welling out behind him and now glaring at her instead of the barista. She sniffed, tossed her head, marched to the door, and swung through it, angrily banging it behind her. Malcolm didn’t watch her go. He was too busy figuring out how much pumpkin spice Ainsley would want in her latte. And how much Jin probably didn’t.

As the barista rang up his purchases, she darted a quick glance at him, and her professional mask slipped a little. Relief shone through her eyes. “Thank you.” She whispered. And it wasn’t for ordering coffee and bagels.

He smiled a little at her as he handed her some bills. “No problem.” He reassured her. “And keep the change.”

Her eyes flicked to the numbers on the bills and widened. She looked at him, almost panicked. He tried to think what Gil would do. He smiled a little wider, making sure it was clearly genuine this time. It’d been genuine the first time. But he wasn’t always great at communicating what he meant to people.

“I mean it.”

She blinked faster. “Th-thank you. A lot.” She cleared her throat. And carefully put the few hundreds he’d tipped her away.


	2. Interview With A Vampire

“This is a terrible idea.” 

“I know.”

“No, really, like, a genuinely certifiable, absolutely textbook-awful plan that is going to end in disaster.”

“Look, every lead in this case has gone cold. The murderer is excruciatingly thorough, leaves no trace, and has been getting away with killing at least a dozen people for decades. That junkyard is a nightmare. And the only one who might have a lead is Dr. Whitly.”

“I know that, Ains. I just—it’s—this part he’s playing, the helpful counselor who oh-so-conveniently won’t talk to anyone but you and me—and oddly enough insists on being recorded for television—it’s an act. You know that, right?”

“Sure.”

Malcolm sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose again. When he next spoke, he strove to keep fatigue and the unspoken, inescapable decades-old-worry of _he’ll **hurt** my **sister** _out of his voice. “Okay. But the second something off goes down, you listen to me and we—and Jin—get the hell out of that cell and let the people literally paid to keep our serial killer progenitor locked away do their jobs. Promise?”

Ainsley sipped demurely at her coffee, making a non-committal noise. Malcolm glared at her. She rolled her eyes. 

“Yes, fine, older-brother-special-agent-consultant-man.” She sipped her coffee again, studying him closely. “I’ll be careful, you know that.” She narrowed her gaze at him quizzically. “You’re cranky today. What’s wrong?”

Malcolm huffed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just—I’m tired, I don’t want to do this, I almost forgot to feed Sunshine this morning and I spilled birdseed all over the kitchen, and the doctor wants to try putting me on some new—“

He stopped. Stared into the distance.

Ainsley stopped walking too. “Malcolm?” She said, her voice genuinely worried. “What—what is it?”

Malcolm stopped staring and sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose again. “Meds.” He muttered under his breath. 

“Huh?” Ainsley inched closer, her forehead furrowing in worry. “What?”

“My meds.” Malcolm said quietly. “I forgot to take them this morning.” He resisted the urge to crush his (still half-full) coffee cup in one hand, choosing to breathe through his frustration instead. He tried grinning at his younger sister. “It’s okay, Ains. It’s fine.”

Ainsley’s frown didn’t entirely leave her eyes. “We can—we can reschedule this whole thing, if you want. I don’t—I don’t want you to—“

Malcolm cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Nah, don’t. I know how hard it was to even get this much arranged.” He managed a weak smile. “And you know rescheduling anything is practically impossible given our hectic schedules.”

“And the fact that Dr. Whitley’s in high-security-hospital-prison for being a serial killer.”

“That too.”

Together, the two of them headed towards Claremount Psychiatric Hospital. Above them, thick winter clouds rolled in, the promise of snow whistling through the darkening sky.


	3. If Something's Too Good To Be True...

Malcolm Whitley looked at the locked door, then back to his only son, who was currently lying bleeding on the floor.

“Well.” The grey-haired man said cheerfully, adjusting his sweater. “That escalated quickly.”

**Thirty Seconds Earlier**

“AINSLEY!! RUN!!”

“No, no, NO! MALCOLM!! NO! NO! I WON’T LEAVE YOU WITH—NO, MALCOLM!!”

“JIN, GET HER OUT OF HERE!”

“NONONONONNONOOO—“

“AINSLEY, COME ON, WE HAVE TO—“  
“MALCOLM!!! NO—MALCOLM—N—“

The heavy door slammed closed, Jin and Ainsley falling over in a crying, messy heap in the hallway outside Whitley’s cell, Mr. David’s moaning, barely breathing form half-breaking their fall. Ainsley scrambled around, clawing her way out of Jin’s grasp and slamming her palms against the locked and bolted heavy metal and glass doors. The keypad blinked merrily, showing the cell was secure.

Which was half of the problem. To Ainsley, anyway. For his part, Malcolm was almost unbearably glad for automatic lockdown procedures. Ainsley couldn’t get in. True, he couldn’t get out, but neither could…well. The point was that Ainsley was safe. Mostly. Definitely more safe out there in the secured hallway than in here.

“Malcolm!” Ainsley’s cry sounded muffled through the glass. That was probably the point of high-security cells like these, Malcolm thought. Or the blood loss was getting to him. One of the two.

“—it’s going to be okay, Malcolm, it’s going to be—just hang on, okay, okay? I’ll get Mom, and Gil, and—oh, oh, _Malcolm_ —“

Another voice, also familiar. But not a quarter as concerned. If anything, it sounded bored.

“Such a lot of fuss over such a small amount of blood.” Dr Whitley, aka The Surgeon mused. He readjusted his cardigan, smiling brightly. “Then again, I suppose it is her first time. She’s allowed to be a little unsettled.”

Malcolm glared back at his father, wishing his own eyes weren’t sliding shut of their own accord. It was so hard to glare defiantly up at your literally murderous father when your eyes were crossing from a mix of fading adrenaline and fatigue. Oh, and blood loss. The blood loss definitely wasn’t helping.

His father’s smile faded slightly. “Malcolm? Malcolm. Don’t be so dramatic, my boy. It’s not a mortal wound, just a painful one. And, as I told you, we need to talk. I wanted your sister here too, but apparently you still have that whole “protective older brother thing” going on.” He sighed heavily. “And a complete security lockdown was the perfect opportunity for us to have a little quality time together. Even if she did bring her significant other with her…”

Woozy though he was, Malcom didn’t miss the indefinably ugly look Martin Whitly shot towards Jin.

He was suddenly very, very glad Jin—and Mr. David—were with Ainsley on the other side of the heavy security door. And that it had locked shut automatically. He didn’t…he didn’t want to think what could have happened if…if he hadn’t figured out Martin’s plan just in time to shove Jin and Ainsley towards the doorway…because…

…because…

…the entire hospital going into emergency lockdown during Martin’s interview with his children…wasn’t a coincidence. It couldn’t be.

God, he’d known his dad was a narcissistic asshole. But this was a lot. Even for him. Uh-oh. Martin was talking. Dr. Whitly—the Surgeon—was talking. He should…uh. Um. What should he do? Put pressure on his stomach wound, yeah. But also…oh. Pay attention. Try and figure out what to do next. Yeah. Yeah, that sounded good.

“—not entirely sure he’s good enough for her.” His father murmured, turning the tiny ceramic knife over and over in his bloodstained hands. Seeing Malcolm’s wandering gaze alight on him again, his face lightened and the crease of irritation smoothed out, replaced by a chummy grin.

“But enough about distractions. We’ve so much to talk about, you and I.”

“Uhnnn….” Malcolm managed. He tried bringing his free hand around and below him, tried pushing himself off the cold stone floor and the steadily dripping, uncomfortably warm pool of blood growing beneath him. No luck. His arm wasn’t listening to him. Didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to budge. Plus the tremors were back, his hand shaking with the terror he couldn’t allow himself to feel.

So he just lay there, where’d he fallen, on his side, seeing his father’s smile as he felt his own blood pool underneath him.

Well, crap. This was not going to be a good day.

“…waited for this day for quite some time, my boy…”

Focus, Bright. Focus on what the madman is saying. Buy yourself time. Buy time for help to arrive. Help would come. Ains had promised. Help would…help would…help…

“…the wind picking up? That’s some storm out there. Forecast today said it would turn into a positive whiteout before nightfall.” His father giggled. Giggled. “It’s practically cozy.”

Malcolm’s stomach—already queasy—fell another metaphorical twenty feet, leaving his heart in his metallic tasting mouth. He coughed. The taste of iron spattered across his tongue but he forced himself to swallow. Don’t let Whitly see. Don’t let him know how bad this is.

Oh, God.

Whiteout. Blizzard. Night.

No Gil. No Mom. No Ainsley. No Dani, no JT,no Edrisa. Just...just him. And the Surgeon. Locked together in a cell. Literal nightmare come to life.

No end in sight.

Oh God.

The room was getting darker. Or he was falling unconscious. Hard to tell. He’d have to…he just needed some time. To figure things out. He’d figure it—he had to figure it—

The room went black. He didn’t know why.


	4. ...It Usually Is

“—there’s my boy.”

Malcolm groaned, sluggishly opening one eye. His father’s beaming face greeted his return to consciousness. Malcolm made a face and pulled away.

“Well, hello to you too.” His father said with militant cheerfulness, pulling up a chair and sitting on it. “Listen, Malcolm. I wanted us to have a chat.”

“Oh.” Malcolm croaked, instinctively curling up around the stab wound throbbing in his torso. “Did you.”

“About something that’s been bothering me.”

“Is it…the fact that you…brutally murdered…at least…two dozen people?”

“Oh, my boy, always the funny one.”

Malcolm didn’t feel funny. He felt awful. And sick. And scared. His stomach hurt, but getting knifed in the belly tended to have that type of affect on a person. And words kept coming though, running out of his mouth almost as fast as the blood trickling between his fingers and soaking through his shirt. It surprised him. Usually he could see the words coming, filter out the more blunt ones and turn the rest into something resembling civility. But his…his filter was off. Meds. He was off his meds. Forgotten to take them. Too tired, too busy, too tired. Forgot. Which was not good. Not good. In any case, the words kept coming.

“Or …or maybe…you want to tell me…how you managed to…get a ceramic…shiv into your cell? And how you almost killed Mr. David? And st—st—stabbed me? During your…interview? Want to…t-t-talk about any of that?”

Whitly either missed the sarcasm lacing Malcom’s tone, or chose to ignore it. Either way, his eyes gleamed with indulgent affection.

“Not yet, my boy. That’s for later. Right now—right now I want you to focus on one thing.”

“The…unrelenting…aa-aa—agony?”

“Stop overreacting, I’ll tend to that in a bit. Besides, you’ve only yourself to blame for that. If you hadn’t fought back, I wouldn’t have had to stab you. In any case, Malcolm—what I want you to realize, my dear boy, is that—you’re free.”

Martin Whitly sat up straight, beaming down at his son. Malcolm blinked hazily, slowly processing the incomprehensible conversation as best he could. Come up with something, come on, Malcolm, something funny, or witty, or a conversation hook, something to keep Martin Whitly talking and explaining while the precious minutes ticked by and Jin and Ains can call for help (which would hopefully include a take-no-prisoners-mindset Gil and Jessica, armed for bear and backed up by the rest of the team, a healthy band of medics, and at least two fully stocked ambulances).

“I’m…what?” He managed. “Free?…from…what? How? What are you…what?”

Martin laughed. Outright laughed.

“Free from what they made you!” He smiled. “I admit, it was a bit inelegant, and the stabbing was absolutely the last resort, but I knew you wanted it, my boy. You’re here, with me. Free from that insufferable cop and your mother who—bless her fragile little heart—selfishly tried to keep you from me all these years. Plus, I freed you from those mind-altering substances they’ve been pumping into you before you hit puberty—yes, yes, I’m able to do that, I am rather clever after all—I arranged for your refills to have placebos instead of those awful drugs in them. Didn’t you notice they weren’t working as well lately? Say, for the last week or so?”

Malcom opened his mouth. Then closed it again, squeezing his eyes shut against the awful realization.

The worsening depression. The nightmares. The night terrors, hallucinations. They’d gotten so much worse. So quickly. And he hadn’t realized. Hadn’t caught on to what was happening. Hadn’t told anyone about them. He’d thought he was just weak. He’d thought he could…but he couldn’t. He’d…he’d failed.

And he was no doctor, but he knew enough about the medicines he was taking to know that going cold turkey off them was…just about the worst thing he could do. Aside from willingly sticking his hand in a blender, maybe. For a moment the world greyed out, and, as if from a bird’s-eye view, he saw himself curled up on the floor of his father’s cell, blood seeping out around him in a pool of strangely curved crimson. He saw the top of his father’s head, the salt-and-pepper hair strangely innocuous and ordinary, just like the sagging cardigan pulled on over his jumpsuit. Ainsley and Jin were outside the door, his sister’s golden hair messy and falling out around her face as she tried simultaneously giving the badly injured Mr. David first aid, planning some kind of rescue plan with Jin, and frantically punching numbers into her phone that—Malcolm knew on a level deeper than his bones—would never make an outside call again. If Marti—if Doctor Whitly had been able to interfere with Malcolm’s medication…and had engineered an entire hospital lockdown so he could have a heart to heart with both his estranged children…during a tv recording, no less—Ainsley’s phone was probably the only one in New York that wouldn’t work. Aside from his. And Jin’s. And—

A tiny, flashing red light caught his attention. Malcom stopped floating upward, interested.

The camera.

The camera Jin had thrown to the floor when the whole mess had started. When Dr. Whitly had, somehow free from his restraints, had lunged from his chair at Mr. David, the small ceramic blade gleaming eerily in the harsh cell light. The camera Malcolm had tripped over as he tried running to David’s aid as the lockdown siren began to blare its incessant warning to the entire building.

The camera, which had been recording the interview was…was still on. Granted, under the bed and not at cinematic-award-winning angles, but…it was still on.

Huh.

That was…interesting. And something he might be able to use. If he could just figure out what to do, how to use that to his advantage…

Another wave of fierce nausea and the feeling that his thoughts were getting shredded in a wood-chipper made him wheeze. His gaze faded out and he couldn’t remember what had interested him such a short time before.

And Martin’s voice—Malcolm couldn’t make out the words—was getting shorter, the tone terse and clipped. He was getting irritated. Oh man. Dr Whitly didn’t like being ignored. He valued respect. And right now Malcolm wasn’t giving it to him.

Granted, Malcolm had just been shived in the freaking stomach and was in the middle of highly-disadvised-and-involuntary-medicine-withdrawal, but Whitly probably didn’t count that as an acceptable excuse for rudeness. Oh, hell. Time to try and make the best out of a bad situation. Should he say something? Probably. Or maybe not, because then Martin would get pissy at him for interrupting. But he hadn’t heard the last minute and a half of Martin’s monologuing, so…ugh. None of his options were good. They rarely were.

“…what did…wh-what did you want to t-t-talk about?” He rasped.

“Don’t interrupt.” Martin snapped, his eyes flashing for the briefest of instants. Then they were back to their amiable glow, the face of the eager doctor and caring father back up and as firmly fixed as a stone lion roaring at the world.

“Well. I’m glad to see you’re finally paying attention.”

“I…try.”

“So. As I was saying. You’re free now.” Martin leaned in, bright eyes searching his son’s face. “How do you feel?”

Malcolm stared, then blinked. Remember the training. Remember how to do this.

Make conversation.

He cleared his throat, forced his tongue to form words.

“I…”

Be curious.

“You…”

Be persuasive.

“Yes, my boy?”

Something—it might have been Martin Whitly’s voice, or the eager, inquisitive look in his eyes—or the dull sound of Ainsley sobbing and swearing intermittently behind the thick glass door—but something cracked deep in Malcolm. Something strange, and old, and new—and _angry_. He stared up at his father. And then his voice broke out of his throat like someone had ripped the words from his vocal chords.

“YOU’RE FUCKING SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?!!!???”

Martin sat back, startled and indignant. “Well…of course I am.” He said, simply, reasonably, as if this was a normal family’s dinner conversation and he’d just asked Malcolm how his day at school had gone.

Malcolm bared his teeth and hissed, an almost long-forgotten fury rising up inside him. “You—YOU SHIVED ME!!” He yelled. Almost of its own accord, he watched one of his legs reach out and feebly kick towards the most notorious serial killer of the past generation. Since said serial killer was still comfortably ensconced on his chair, and Malcom was curled up around his still-bleeding stab wound on the floor, the leg knew before it had begun that the effort was futile. But it tried all the same.

“YOU STABBED ME IN THE GUTS!!! AFTER TRYING TO—TO TRAP AINSLEY IN HERE WITH YOU!”

“I wanted a family conversation.” His father amended, practically pouting. “It’s not my fault you two are so hard to get ahold of.”

“YOU KILLED PEOPLE!” Malcolm screamed, feeling the words tear his throat as they left it. “YOU!! MURDERED!! PEOPLE!! YOU TORTURED PEOPLE TO DEATH FOR FUN, YOU FUCKING HIPPOCRATIC NIGHTMARE,AND YOU’RE IN FUCKING PRISON FOR IT!!”

“I am in a hospital for it, thank you very much.” Martin Whitly said, his eyes beginning to gleam with a cold, sharp light sparking from somewhere far down in their depths.

“SEMANTICS!!” Malcolm hollered again, kicking. “You—you—you’re asking how I’m doing? YOU STABBED MR. DAVID IN THE GUTS, YOU ASSHOLE! AND THEN YOU DID THE SAME TO ME!!”

“My dear boy.” Martin Whitly said, enunciating quite clearly, his kind tone dropping a few octaves into a tiger-sounding growl. “I will not tolerate that tone from you.” Leaning down, he examined his son clinically. And, with careful deliberation, kicked the stab wound with one slippered foot.

Malcolm made a sound he didn’t know he could make. His vision whitened out for a second, but when he came to, he still saw his father’s face. Which was not smiling, exactly. Not now.

“Oh…oh, I—I—I’m s—s—so _sorry_ —” Malcolm gasped. “Uh—uh—oh, uh—I’m—I’m sorry, Doctor Whitly, is—is this _better_? How about I just _speak_ the truth instead of _screaming_ it, you s—s-s-sadistic, narcissistic, unrepentant m-m- _murderer?_ ”

Martin’s face darkened and he drew back his foot for another blow. “I am your _father_ ,” he all but snarled, “and you will treat me with _respect_.”

As the second kick hit, an involuntary shudder tore through Malcolm’s body, and he suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to cry. He forced the tears back and down, shoving them desperately, horribly deep, deep down into the gaping hole in his heart that had ripped open when he was ten years old, and had never fully healed.

“Nn-n—no.”he gasped, more to himself than anyone else. “Nn-no. You’re—you’re not my father.”

Martin Whitly looked up from his own reddening socks, fastidious disgust morphing instantly into a blank, burning stare fixed on his only son.

“What was that.” He said quietly.

Malcolm curled in tighter around himself at the sound of his father’s voice, trying hard not to shiver. It was hard. The floor was cold. And he was cold. And everything hurt.

“What…”

Kick.

Ow.

“…was…”

Kick.

Ow.

“..that?”

Kick.

Something cracking in his side. New blossoming pain. Not good, not good, not good.

Oh, God. No going back now.

“You’re not my father!” Malcolm roared, feeling traitorous tears welling out of his eyes and dripping messily down the side of his face, onto the floor. “You’re not my dad! I’m not your son! And I’m—I’m not you! I never was, and I never will be! So stop—stop calling me—your boy!”

Silence.

Stretching. Absolute. Silence.

“Hm.” Said Martin Whitly.

On the floor below him, Malcolm half-gasped, half-sobbed into the heavy quiet until he caught his breath. With an effort, he forced his eyes open and focused them back on Martin. Who was somehow staring both at him and through him, dark eyes staring, staring, staring, wide and wild. Then Martin blinked, and his sanity—if you could call it that—returned.

The Surgeon smiled a humorless smile. Thin-lipped and furious, it looked like a knife wound on his colorless face. He tapped the ceramic blade once, twice on the side of the chair. Then he stood up decisively and moved over to the ornate bookcases adorning one side of his cell. Pulled some books out, moved others aside, rifling through the dusty depths. Pulled one particularly thick volume out. Opened the box so that the pages caught the light.

No.

Not the pages.

That book…that book didn’t have pages.

There were…metal things. Sharp and long, thin and gleaming. Liquid glistening in the cold yellow glare from the harsh ceiling lights.

Malcolm watched the other man’s movements as if hypnotized.

Martin Whitly turned to face him, smiling serenely, a syringe in one experienced hand.

“I never did get to show you everything I know.” He said. But all the warmth was gone from his tone. Like a switch had been flipped. Like some long-practiced role was finally over.

Or as if he’d changed his mind. As if he’d abruptly decided that the path he’d been walking wasn’t for him, and summarily turned from it. And set fire to it—and everything along it—as he left.

Well, _shit._


	5. Repercussions

“…and after this, I’ll get ahold of your sister. Well, maybe your mother first. Have some bonding time with the both of them. That lieutenant can’t watch them forever. And speaking of him, I think I’ll find a way to greet your friends at the precinct. I always wanted to meet them, and honestly, I just can’t pass up the opportunity to get to know them better—oh, _now_ what is it—“

Screaming somewhere, faint and heartsick. Dull thudding on glass. Bits of sound trickled in. Or maybe that was his brain supplying the sound to the words he thought Ainsley might be shouting. Or his brain was frying. Possibly from the involuntary drug withdrawal. Or the sleep deprivation. Or the blood loss. It’d probably get worse with the torture drugs his ‘dad’ was going to inject him with. Urgh. Most situations didn’t come with even one of those sorts of options.

Malcom had a fucking multiple choice list. Which _included_ “all of the above”.

For _fuck’s_ sake.

“—colm! Malcolm!! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! Malcolm, just—hold on! Please, hold on, I need you to—nononono, MALCOLM!!!”

Malcolm blinked fuzzily. Turned his head towards his sister. Tried to, at least.

Found out he couldn’t.

Oh, fantastic.

He didn’t want to think about what it’d be like when Martin went to work on him, how the Surgeon’s drugs would affect his lungs. He tried to swallow. Couldn’t do that so well either, now. And true to form, Martin Whitly’s rattling on about how, really, this was all part of his plan. About how he’d MEANT to showcase Malcolm’s callous betrayal for the entire world to see, and how after he’d properly punished his _prodigal son_ —the words hissed with such venom Malcolm was mildly surprised his father’s lips hadn’t shriveled or fallen off—Martin Whitly would go on to eke out vengeance on everyone else who’d ever wronged him. Which apparently included everyone Malcolm had ever interacted with—his sister, his mother, his mentor, his colleagues, his classmates, his former colleagues, and up to and including a part-time orderly who’d brought Martin the wrong kind of pudding three months ago.

Somewhere between the excruciating pain and the encroaching blackness of impeded thought, Malcolm dizzily wished he could still articulate enough to tell Martin Whitly exactly what he thought of him.

Fucking…fucker.

Martin cocked his head, studying him. “I wonder what will happen once I do this. You see, the way drugs interact with the human body is so…fascinating.” He laughed, once, a short, strange sound in the cold room. “Well, in your case, the lack of drugs. Well, the lack of certain ones. And the addition of a few others. And timing. That’s key as well.” Back on the chair, Martin propped his chin in his hand and studied his oldest child clinically.“Honestly, with what they were giving you all these years, it’s a wonder how you manage to get out of bed in the morning, let alone function as a human being.” He leaned in, eyes bright with curiosity. “How’s the withdrawal treating you?” He mused out loud. “I wonder.”

Malcolm tried to swallow again, found he couldn’t. His mouth had gone dry—again, toss up for whichever factor (or factors) had caused it—and his heart had started to pound, and Malcolm had the (unfortunately, in this case, completely real) sudden, overwhelming, primal fear he was about to die. He tried to look at Ainsley again. Failed. His body was curled up now in an awkward position, and his neck wouldn’t move. Too stiff. Too stiff, too stiff—no….no, no, no—

Nononoono—not now—please, not now—seizures sucked, they always had, but to have them now, here—he didn’t want this, he didn’t want this, he didn’t want Ainsley’s last memories of him to have this in them—nonono—please, someone, anyone, don’t—don’t let it—above Martin’s head, the room had started to spin, colors fading in and out of focus. No, no—please, please, please, please, no—ple—

Martin leaned in closer.

“What was that?”

But Malcolm didn’t answer. He couldn’t have. Even if he’d tried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Positive feedback comments are lovely and help the muse stay alive :) Thanks for reading!


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